Pretty My Ass
by emfghtykj
Summary: When mediocrity is your calling card and you never overcame the first of the 7 stages, looks are of very little concern to you. Because your entire life is just one really bad, sadist joke.


There's something about your face, you think, that's off. It's not that your ugly (not by a long shot) but there's something about the proportions or the way you hold yourself that's not quite right.

It's not just you that's noticed, you've made sure you had statistic evidence before assuming what you have. Girls like your friends, your enemies, those girls in the Aphrodite cabin - you don't quite know where they stand - have mentioned, in passing the condition you possess. Usually there's a "no offense" tacked in there hastily to avoid hurting any feelings, as if your self confidence hasn't already been shattered.

"Oh, sweetie" or "sweetheart" or "honey", they'll start out condescendingly, and that's when you know to steel yourself for the scathing offhand remark that will escape their superior mouths. "You're so pretty" they start out, setting you up for failure when your stance relaxes and your shoulders slump in relief, but - "but", you wince because there's always a but, a precedent "wouldn't you be so beautiful if you just wore some makeup". They never cease to phrase their advice as a query, but forget to add the upwards lilt in their vocal intonation, as if asking your permission to tear you down from the inside out. "Be my guest" you silently reply.

There was also "did your hair like this" or "wore some nice clothes", even "smiled". Once someone had the nerve to to tell you "if you tried harder". Why should you join a race you've already lost, that everyone will lose in the end.

Sometimes you agree with them. On numerous occasions you've had to remind yourself that there is constantly room to improve. But, you angrily reprimand yourself, not like this, never with something as materialistic that relies so heavily on chance.

You've thought about this so much, run over scenarios in your head, played them out as if you were a beauty queen. There was a boy who used to have blond hair and a disfigured face (because beauty never meant much to you if you can't already tell) but in the back of your head, where dreams are left passive and unattended, had slowly been changing himself. Now on the rare occasion you check, he has black hair and stunning green eyes of a colour you can't quite put a name to.

A couple of times you suspected that's why he left. Because you weren't pretty enough after Thalia died, that Thalia had embodied a set of physical standards to high to ever reach, let alone beat, conquer, destroy. But then Thalia came back and you comforted yourself with the fact that he still didn't return, not even for the black-haired, blue-eyed huntress of Artemis to whom he had previous engagements, ties - however frayed and severed (though it did cross your mind to consider Thalia's forsworn virginity as a definite turn-off, but you figured if he loved her - or her looks - enough, he would have groveled and begged with a vengeance).

You wonder whether, maybe, if your hair falls right today, or if the makeup you put on one morning works like its supposed to, or if your face is seen in the right light from the proper angle, someone will appreciate what you have but don't, because, frankly, you've gotten tired of losing arguments to yourself. The Aphrodite kids seem to consider life one big, fucking beauty contest, so why shouldn't you?

So you figure, there's nothing to do but live with what you've been given, which is a pretty good deal, especially in terms of intelligence, plus you're not so bad with weaponry. You'll still survive whether your hair is tied up, whether you take off your makeup as soon as it's applied, whether your face is seen as a botched masterpiece or a work of art (and you quote "it's like a half finished painting, you have so much potential!" but you don't hear that last part because you're seething when you hear them refer to your visage as an object - "it").

And then as soon as you come to peace with your body image, this boy, one of the biggest what if's in your life, your best friend of an extremely obtuse mind frame, is no longer a what if. He steps out from the lineup of obscure every day fantasies and into your line of vision, sweeping you off of your feet.

You keep waiting for a but, and you get one. His. And it is toned and fantastic. But not one condition comes from his mouth, no criteria for his love. It's all free, and it doesn't hurt that he's gorgeous (or so the Aphrodite girls tell you in between checking themselves out and checking your boyfriend out). Those same girls from cabin 10 now have no problem with how you look - "you've always been uniquely stunning". To top it off his pet name for you is exactly how you feel when you're with him.

Beautiful.


End file.
